


I Always Wanted T' Be An Axe Murderer!

by NickFreakinSurvived



Category: Left 4 Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Gen, I wrote most of this at like 7am with no sleep so, I'm Sorry, Inappropriate use of a caliper, Morbid, Murder, Oops, Other, RIP Keith, Rip Nick, Spit Kink, Squick, coach is only mentioned sorry, enjoy anyway, rip coach, rip rochelle, spitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:50:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22504771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickFreakinSurvived/pseuds/NickFreakinSurvived
Summary: They should have known.
Relationships: Ellis & Keith (Left 4 Dead), Ellis & Nick (Left 4 Dead), Ellis & Rochelle (Left 4 Dead), Ellis/Nick (Left 4 Dead)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 53





	1. They should have known.

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this tumblr post, sorry if I didnt do it any justice I loved the artwork so much that I was like :0
> 
> https://delakoks.tumblr.com/post/190521483613

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If they'd have listened, it would have been obvious.

Waking up to Rochelle's choked off screams, and the tangy stench of blood in the air was more surprising than it really should be in the zombie freaking apocalypse, but it was a shock none the less. Nick took a steadying breath before pulling his gun from beneath his pillow and rolling himself out of the uncomfortable camping cot CEDA oh so graciously left survivors in the wake of their colossal fuck up. The conman loaded the gun quietly and wondered how the fuck a zombie even got into the safe house; why weren't the other two helping Ro'? Couldn't they hear her screaming? Christ. He spares a brief thought of regret for the thought she will probably be dead when he reaches her, and if Coach and Ellis weren't already on it... Where they dead too?  
  
Fuck. He couldn't afford to be alone in this shit.   
  
Nick edges himself closer to the door, listening intently to breathy gasps that were drawing closer. Rochelle, God damn she's one Hell of a fighter. He doesn't hear anything else, no growls or snarls; she must have killed the thing on her own, attagirl. He glances towards the med-kit by his bedside, okay, he's pretty sure he has bandages, painkillers and that nasty ass antiseptic. That shit _burns,_ he almost feels bad for the fact he'll no doubt have to use it on her and only hopes that she's not too injured. The conman looks out into the hall and frowns, not able to spot Rochelle immediately but-  
  
Jesus Christ.   
  
She had no legs. Panic and agony written across her features as she dragged herself across the floor, red coated palms slapping against linoleum and slipping with each desperate push. Blood pumps in time with her racing heart from severed arteries leaving a morbid trail of thick viscera behind her as she reaches the safe-house door with a heaved sob. The reporter reaches up for the handle, wet fingers barely able to get purchase until she gives in and pounds her fists into the unforgiving metal before finally slumping to the ground, breath hitching on every shuddered exhale.  
  
Rochelle slowly raised her head; brown eyes locked with grey as she mouthed ‘Run.’   
  
Call him a coward but for once in his life he did as he was told.  
  
Stepping out of his room he looked down the hall as he inched closer to her side; the light in the weapons room is on and a voice called out from within. “Y'know Ro, this would’ve hurt less if y’ stayed put.” Ellis, Nick's stomach turned and his legs froze by the reporters side. Ellis wouldn't... He felt a weak pressure on his legs, Rochelle pushing him to the door with all the strength she said left.  
  
"Gogogogo." Her voice is barely a whisper. "Pleasego."  
  
The hicks silhouette appeared in the doorway and Nick can't think before he raises his gun, barely giving himself time to aim before firing. Hearing the “Ah shit!” as the bullet either hits the younger or misses entirely, Nick doesn't hang around to find out.  
  
This was the guy who Nick had trusted with a shotgun at his back, this is the guy be shared food with, helped wrap with bandages, laughed with. Nick shoves the door open and bolts, shoving down the guilt he feels at leaving Rochelle to their teammates tender mercies. Pausing to glance back as behind him he hears a scuffle, Rochelle, a final act of defiance driving her on, had wrapped her arms around Ellis' legs causing him to stumble. She held strong and shouted “Just run!” That would be the last thing she says, as Ellis brings the curved edge of the fire-axe down onto her cheek, splitting though the hollow in a Glasgow smile, pressing harder he forces the axe head forward and into her jaw severing the joint. The sight leaves Nick numb, to see such a strong woman fall.  
  
Shaking himself off he raises his gun and fires at the maniac who was once his friend, the incessant shaking of his hands sends the bullet off course and it tears through the back of Ellis's shoulder instead of his fucking head. Blue eyes lock with Nicks and pure Hellfire burns bright in their depths, not even a glimmer of pain seems to be registering within the hick as he shakes Rochelle free of his axe. Nick reaches up to pull black the slide but with the fury of a bull Ellis starts charging.  
  
Nick had never willed his own legs to move so fast.  
  
Heart pounding in his chest he could barely hear himself think, what was he even doing; there’s no point in running. He either faces Ellis head on or he gets outside and then what? Its Ellis or the zombies.  
  
"Hey, Nick..." The psychopath sing-songed, the metallic scrape of his axe dragging along the floor as he stalked behind Nick. He wasn't even running, an almost leisurely stroll would be the best way to describe Ellis' movements. Jesus Christ he was enjoying himself.  
  
Nick decides he’d prefer the zombies. They at least, aren’t so gleeful as they rip you to shreds.  
  
Rounding a corner Nick slammed the door behind him as he entered a storage room. Shit. No other exit. Just his fucking luck.  
  
“Nick...”  
  
Why was this such a surprise? ‘I always wanted to be an axe murderer.’ He should have fucking known.  
  
It was obvious.  
  
Nick hid himself behind a stack of boxes, trying to steady his trembling fingers as he checks the guns chamber. One left. If he missed he’d be in hand to axe combat with a deranged hillbilly.  
  
“’Tween me ‘n the zombies there ain’t many places t' hide.”  
  
The way he laughed as his chainsaw ripped through flesh. ‘Die, Die my darlin's."  
  
It should have been so fucking clear.   
  
Nick tried to slow his breathing, listening out as heavy boots clunked closer.  
  
The blood never bothered him, not once. He thought it was cool.  
  
Coach, Rochelle and even Nick himself just thought it was him being optimistic. Childish. 

“Come out come out wherever y’ are.”  
  
Nick let his head fall back against the boxes. They were so fucking wrong. 

“Y'know, you’re more fun than Ro' or Coach. Coach was sleepin' then Ro ran _at_ me. Like she ain’t tiny. I’on know what ‘er plan was. Runners ‘re always fun.”

Always fun. He’s done this before. Grey eyes widened, staring at the boxes in front of him. He’s fucking done this before. Nick felt his heart in his throat and sweat drip down his brow. He's dealt with killers before. Hell, he’s also killed before. But not like this. Not with a fucking smile.

He didn’t play with his victim like it was a fucking game.  
  
“’M gettin' bored.”

There was a crash somewhere behind him as Ellis' boot collided with a different stack of boxes, sending them and their contents sprawling to the ground. Jesus fucking Christ. Another crash. He sees a food can roll by. He needs to move. One bullet.  
  
Nick is tempted to use it on himself. Rid himself of the memory of Rochelle's fear, the overwhelming metallic smell of her blood, the thought that their sweet country bumkpin was capable of such monstrosity. That he had been such a fucking moron and trusted a stranger again.  
  
"Y'know this reminds me o' this one time; me ‘n my buddy Keith went campin'’ Crash. “An' well, he was drinkin' lots but I didn’ have a single sip. N'aw I’d been plannin' this trip for weeks.” Nick moves, dodging boxes and racks to hide himself behind a boiler squeezing into the gap between it and the wall. “I saw ya! Y' not very good at hidin', guess you're better’n Keith was though. Anyways-" He shoves over another pile. “I ask Keith what he'd do ‘f there were a killer out in the woods. An' he said he’d fight ‘em. Couldn’t help it, I laughed. Asked if he’d fight me an' he says ‘Y'ain’t a killer, El.’ Holy-shit I almost laughed again, didn't though.” His axe slams into the boilers metal case, the force of the blow bringing up a cloud of stale dust into the already suffocating atmosphere. “So later on, right, when Keith goes f' a piss. I take the hammer from ‘is tool box an' go after ‘im. An' when he’s like ‘El I know it’s you' I hit him, not too hard y'know. Jus' t' get that message across, an’ he’s pissed as all hell, sumblin' an' tryna stand back up, pullin' up his pants shoutin' at me. Then he looks at me, really really looks. And f' all his talk ‘bout fightin'? He didn’t, ran like dogs was on his ass.” Another bang, on the other side of the boiler. Nick checks his gun one last time and turns hims back to the wall.

“Now, Keith was a big guy an' drunk, making him run around felt kinda mean; So I walked.” Nicks breath catches in his throat, Ellis made his best friend run for his life and then he _walked_. Nick raises his gun. “No point tho, he were so panicked he must’a tripped what like six times? Sent himself into a ditch that last time. Then he starts shoutin' to me ‘Ellis y' my buddy you ain’t wanna do this' An' I stood over ‘im in that ditch an' y'know what I said?” His shadow seems to come from both sides of the boiler. Edging closer. And closer.  
  
“I said ‘Don’t I?’”

The shadow moves and Nick fires as that fucking axe swings out, gunshot echoing through the small space as it glances off the metal head leaving Nick's ears ringing and the smoke from the bullet in his nose.

Ellis stepped into the opening, looking at the chip in his axe were the bullet had ricocheted, tapping his boot against the floor he chuckles. “That y' last one? Sucks t' be you I guess. Y’know, Keith lived a long ass time. Amazing how long adrenaline can keep y' heart goin’ for. Wont bore you with all th' details though, I know you hate my stories. But; he cried a lot, you ain’t strike me as an easy crier though Nick.”

Nick began backing himself out of the corner, slowly attempting to move himself sideways and free of the enclosed space while he allows his gun to drop to the floor with a resounding clatter.

Ellis' cheeky grin spreads across his face, as if he’d just made the best damn joke in the world.

“It'd be my pleasure t' make ya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh I'm editing each chapter i've posted in an attempt at self improvement lmao. Still feel free to point out mistakes or areas for improvments xoxo (26/11/20)


	2. And so Achilles has fallen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running would either take him to the zombies, or right back where he started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per tell me of any mistakes so I can correct myself because I'm Kei 20 and I never learned how to fucking read.

“Now, I ain’t entirely unsympathetic. So I'mma give y' the count’a three.” Cheshire cat grin across his face, Ellis steps back. This will be so much fucking fun. He knows Nick’s a good runner, Hell you gotta be to outrun the hordes like he does!

Once the conman got going? It'd be a real game of cat and mouse.

He moved from Nick’s field of view and wandered to the other side of the storage room, tapping his axe against the floor as he goes. “One...”

  
Nick doesn’t move, probably things Ellis is bluffing. He’s a real gambler if he chooses to stay put. Or stupid, whichever. “Two...”

He hears the conman edge himself out of the small gap then he bolts, this is going to be the most fun he’s had on a chase. Even when Keith ran he was drunk and injured anyways, easy to catch up to, Nick, if he was to be believed, ran from the cops on a damn near daily basis but Ellis? Ellis is from here. They're at the Whispering Oaks for crying out loud, a place Nick has never been. 

Back offices and storage rooms or not Ellis knew this place like the back of his hand, he broke into it enough on weekends, hell he drowned a girl in the tunnel of love. The mechanic is exactly where he wants to be. 

Hearing a door swing shut to the left, he’s heading in the direction of the fun house, horror train and mirror room. Neat. “Three.” Ellis spins on his heel and breaks into a sprint, he hopes no infected ruin their game before he has chance to really enjoy himself.

As Ellis approaches a hall he is for once glad that there is a fine layer of dust covering the surrounding surfaces, fingerprints had disturbed the greyish tint to the door of the mirror house. Nick should have heeded the sign that said ‘No Exit’. Swinging the door open Ellis peered into the darkness, only the red emergency lights were on, the darkness and the reflections were going to be a pain in the ass but if Ellis remembered correctly the exit was to the left but you had to go right first. Four dead ends but a blind spot and a turning point to the right, the one spot that connects all passages to the exit and entrance.

Glass shatters on Ellis' right, too close for him to be on the exit side of the glass, Nick has hit a dead end. Neat. Sounds like he’s getting frustrated too, soon the panic will turn to anger. That could be a problem, Nick has a shady past, a fist fight with him could get ugly and take a wrong turn real fast. 

So, to deal with the problem swiftly he had to render Nick unconscious before he could prepare a solid swing. Now you’re probably thinking. Just kill him!

But where’s the fun in that?

Tucking himself into the corner between the way they came and the twisted hall leading to the exit Ellis waits. Turning the axe in his hand as he hears quiet footfalls draw near, the gamblers shadow climbs the mirrored hall and through the reflective surface he can see the almost panicked look on his chiselled features. 

Nick’s always been attractive, it'd be a shame to permanently damage a face like that. 

No, neck down. He could have lots of fun from there. Ellis wanted to see that pretty face contort the whatever agony he inflicts to the rest of the body until the nerves were numb. 

As the conman rounded the corner Ellis swung the handle of his axe out, ramming it into the side of Nick’s temple and sending the older man to the ground, side of his head cracking against the mirrors opposite as he fell.

Keeping one hand on the axe, the mechanic grasps Nick’s left ankle with the other, beginning to pull him along the floor even as the older man shakes the stars from his eyes and attempts to pull himself away, scrabbling against the unforgiving wooden floor. Quickly enough, he gathers enough of his senses to swing out with his right foot, kicking the hand holding his left. Ellis has had people fight back harder, he doesn’t let go and drives the base of the axe into the conmans ribs, only holding the forceful press when he feels the crack reverberate up the handle. Nick’s hissed gasp only confirms the hairline the hick will have created. 

“Kickin' ain’t polite.” 

“Y-your mom ‘ain’t’ polite.” He kicks out his leg again, trying to twist the other from the Georgians hold. Ellis presses the steel toe of his boot along the seam of Nick’s crotch and his shoulders shake at how fast the older man freezes.

“Wonder how much force it'd take f' me t' make ‘em pop.” Nick stares up at Ellis, a fearful disbelief in his eyes. The Southerner pushes down once before placing his boot back on the ground. That agonising push was all he needed to make Nick’s jaw click shut, his arms pull in from trying to find purchase and his free leg pulling back and away from Ellis' hands.

Sometimes people just needed that extra motivation before they did as they were told. Ellis could be a damn good motivator. 

Dragging the Northerner back through the halls seemed to take so much longer, with the added weight and the occasional twisting that earned a sharp glare and a bruising squeeze against the ankle. He wont be such a bastard to move when he has no fucking arms or legs.

Back to the trashed boiler room and past the boxes. Ellis really should have expected the shard of glass being driven between his knuckles, forcing him to release the gamblers leg.

A brave but futile attempt at freedom. Before the brunette could scramble to his feet and bolt, Ellis drove the hooked edge of the blade into and under the Achilles tendon, using the strip of flesh to drag Nick back towards him.

Sweating and growling, Nick was behaving like a cornered dog. Swinging his fist wildly back towards the mechanic who simply... Rips the axe free. Tearing the tendon out of place and rendering the foot useless, running would be impossible now.

He tears a good scream from Nick too. Who, without a doubt, felt every nerve ending within his leg burst into flames. Grasping the split ankle and driving his thumb into the hole wrenches another choked gasp from the older man.

Ellis continues their journey back to the safe room without further interruption. 

Pausing briefly at the door, with Nick face to face with dear departed Rochelle’s mangled jaw and glazed eyes. Ellis watches, the building horror in those expressive grey eyes but yet he doesn’t cry. No. Ellis knows it will take more than this to make a man like Nick cry. His heart races at the thought of being the one to pull tears from the usually stoic member of their little family.

Using his thumb to press, he begins to play with the split tendon as he pulls Nick inside. Pushing the fibrous tissue side to side just to hear Nick pant.

Pressing and pressing until the half he was playing with snaps free in his hand. It’ll never grow back. Its wet and sticky in Ellis' hand.

Nick yowls again and the safehouse door clangs shut.


	3. Morbid Barbershop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stop being rude, Nick, this would be so much easier if you just behaved.

Nick felt sick in ways he couldn’t describe. The urge to vomit rose as his vision became clouded with pain; ankle still clasped in the murderer’s hand as the small lump of his tendon dropped wetly to the ground. 

Ellis was talking but it all just seemed like static, his leg was dropped and the dull thud radiated agony through his nerves.

“C'mon now, don’t be borin'!” Boring? Ellis found this boring? Nick was afraid to see what the hick's idea of fun would be if this was fucking boring. Still, Nick wouldn’t offer words, what would pleading achieve to the mind of a psycho? He had screamed enough tonight, shock and pain wrenching his voice from unwilling vocal cords. But no more.

He wasn’t going to say one. Fucking. Word.

Tipping his head back to the ground, he glared at the ceiling, eyes glazed with pain and rage. Rage he couldn’t act upon, pain he couldn’t even get away from. All he could do was wait for his body to accept that there was nowhere to run and go numb instead.

However long that would take.

Nick almost wasn’t expecting the steel toed boot to connect with his ribs, sending all the air from his lungs in a sharp wheeze. “Get up.” Get up? What the fuck kind of game was Ellis playing? The gambler knew he was out matched in whatever it was. He couldn’t read the younger man’s expression, probably never could. 

A calloused hand tangles in dark hair, dragging Nick upwards. “Y'know, I’d be a lot gentler if y' stopped bein' rude.” 

Nick wonders if he could concentrate enough hate into one glare that it would set the fucking hillbilly on fire.

A disappointed sigh sounds inches away from the shell of his ear. “I said.” The grip in his hair tightens, strands being torn from their roots. “Stand" Ellis gets to his feet and hauls the older man with him. “ _Up_.” 

Any amount of pressure on his left leg sent fire up the limb; trying to balance on his right meant leaning closer to the monster he was trapped with. “There we go, wasn’t so hard now was it?” Nick was going to knock this assholes teeth out. “C'mon, sit down.” Yet again he is dragged, the firm grasp in his hair leading him from one side of the room to the other, left leg buckling under every agonizing step until he is jerked to a stop and forced back into a chair. The weight off his ankle was a short-lived relief; Nick knew this was just the beginning. They were in the middle of the God damned zombie apocalypse and Ellis was getting his kicks torturing his former teammates. There was no one out there that would come and help, and the conman sure as fuck can’t run.

Taking a steadying breath through his nose, grey eyes lock their steely gaze to the mechanics chest. Blood and dirt coat his faded yellow work shirt and Nick can’t help but wonder how much of that is zombie blood and how much is Rochelle's or Coaches. Or his. 

“Y' kinda cute when you’re mad y'know.” Do. Not. Respond. “Get this lil' crease right ‘tween your brows.” Ellis turns to the side and begins shifting through tools, Nick doesn’t turn to look, his eyes remain forward. “Silent treatment? Damn, what gonna tell me t'sleep on th’ couch next?” 

Do. _Not_. Respond. 

Ellis stepped around him, bringing a length of rope around the conman's chest; pulling it tight over his arms and around the back of the chair.

Nick found he just couldn’t resist making the southerners job harder, throwing himself forwards against the rope and the younger man’s arms. He hits the ground _hard_ with a pained grunt. He can’t stand without support, he can’t run, he knows this. 

He was going to die. That’s fine too. Nick had understood death as a fact of life at the tender age of eleven; had long since accepted that death was coming when he watched a zombie claw someone's eyes out on his way to that fucking hotel. This just wasn’t exactly how he was expecting to go.

Ellis made to grab his left ankle once more and Nick landed a solid kick to his chest with the right, shuffling backwards on the floor until his back hit the wall. The Georgian rubbed at his chest with a winded groan. Good. 

The moment of triumph is short lived as, with all the grace of a raging bull, Ellis darts close and brings his heavy boot down onto the northerner's gut. Nick’s body caves at the impact, lurching forwards as bile rushes up his throat; he finds himself curled over and clinging to the leg of the younger man’s coveralls. Fingers dig into fabric and flesh as the little food they’ve had over the last few days is violently ejected from his stomach. The acrid liquid burns inside his nose as he heaves onto his own lap and over the hick’s steel toes. The smell hits him immediately and he can’t restrain the second wave of gagging. Tears burn behind his eyes yet he refuses to let them fall.

Is this what dying feels like? 

Ellis removed his boot from Nick’s abdomen, a viscous string of saliva and bile connecting them until the hick dropped his foot back to the ground and crouched low, leaning close he brushes his lips against the older man’s ear. “Be good now.” Acid rose in Nick’s throat again and the shaking doesn’t stop. “Stand up.” The same orders from before, his voice seemed less steely now. Almost soft and Nick couldn’t stop himself from chancing a glance at the others face. To catch a glimpse of remorse, guilt. Anything but the cold, calculating glare he was offering.

There was something. 

Pity. The same pitiful stare you’d give a dying animal.

But above that? Glee. Pure, unbridled mirth shone in those baby blues

Nick wished he never looked, and for the first time in his life? He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed. He prayed to a God that probably wasn’t even listening; he prayed that shock set in soon and he died; he prayed that the burning feeling in his gut was something ruptured and he rapidly bled out from the inside; he prayed that Ellis had an ounce of mercy inside and just slit the his throat to be done with it.

“Nick, y'know I ain’t like repeatin' myself so why d'ya keep makin' me?” The older man wondered if he could make the other angry enough to kill him by accident. Choke him for a second to long or just hit him a little too hard.

No. That would be too easy. A hand clasps the front of his stained blue dress shirt, uncaring of the slimy mixture of vomit and saliva as the material is used to drag him to his unstable feet again. This time, Nick couldn’t find the strength in himself to not follow the hicks pull.

Everything hurt. Every inhale burned his throat and every exhale churned his tender stomach. The weight on his legs listed him sideways and it was only the mechanics strong arms holding him steady. It hadn’t been too long since Nick was sprinting through the halls of this hell house and he was already giving up, more so than just accepting death he was allowing himself to be dragged around like a doll. 

His limp body was sat back in that fucking chair, exactly where he started and this time, he couldn’t even bring himself to fight the rope being strapped across his chest. Pinning him to the backrest like a morbid game of barbershop.

“See now, ain’t it easier when y' just calm down? Y' gettin' all worked up an' for what?” Rope comes around his ankles, joining his feet together, the fibrous twine dips into the missing chunk of flesh of his left. Each twitch burning the rope deeper into the sensitive nerves as the chair legs are tied to his. “Y' so damn _rude_ , Nick.” Just like before, Nick stares ahead blankly as Ellis selects his next tool. 

He still hasn’t said a word, somewhat impressed at his own resolve. 

The hick selected a calliper, testing its weight, opening and closing its end; he rounded on Nick with a grin.

Ellis was going to test how strong that resolve _really_ was.


	4. Smile.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellis wonders about many things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh spit? More pain for Nick. Ellis having a good time. He may have an oral fixation. Lmao sorry my updates take so long I have *depression*

Ellis felt… Well he felt a lot of things right now but ‘serene’ was probably the best word. Nick was finally sitting pretty in his chair, where he’d remain for the foreseeable future and God was that a nice thought?  
  
Though the game might be over quicker than the killer would like if Nick didn’t stop being a dick.  
  
He taps the prongs of the caliper against Nicks jaw. “Hellooo? Anyone home?” Blue eyes narrow. “Y’ either open your mouth all on your own or I’mma start breaking teeth.” He says with an almost sing-song lilt, lips quirked even with the threat,  
  
There’s a brief, exhilarating moment where Ellis thinks Nick may just test that. His jaw clenches shut and defiance builds up like a storm in his eyes; Ellis wonders how many teeth he'd knock out with one swing- But then with a deep sigh through his nose and a tremor to his lower lip; his mouth opened.  
  
“ _Good boy._ ”  
  
Now, Ellis knows he’s cruel, but he does believe in positive reinforcement over punishment, The older man follows a basic instruction? The younger can be gentle in response; hooking a thumb into Nicks left cheek he pulls back, revealing incisors and the first of his molars. The conman can’t quite hold back the full body flinch he gives as the mechanic brings the caliper towards his mouth and lets the cold metal clack against his cigarette stained teeth.  
  
“C’mon say ‘Ahhh’.” Ellis’s voice boarders on playful even as the pressure on the heavy tool is increased and the prongs scrape against the other’s teeth.  
  
Nick does as he’s told, jaw twitching minutely wider. The metal sliding between his front molars.  
  
“See now, this won’t hurt none.” The calipers are winched open barely an inch, forcing the gamblers teeth further apart.  
  
Nick’s eyes flick down, trying to watch each twitch of the hick’s fingers and every move performed with the instrument in his mouth. Yet, Ellis can’t take his own eyes away from the gamblers stricken expression, not with the way his muscles twitch and even his eyes shake in his skull, pupils blown wide.  
  
Finally those stunning grey eyes close in anguish and a groan rises in the others throat. Ellis looks to the caliper and sees blood and saliva dripping down the metal arm and onto his fingers.  
  
Oops. Probably should have been watching what he was doing.  
  
“Sorry, my bad.” He speaks with a grin, “That’s actually kinda impressive though, two point five inches, though I guess we did move your teeth a little.” Pride fills his voice as he brushes his knuckles lightly against Nick’s straining jaw muscles he leans closer to watch his face intently.  
  
“Think we can go wider?”  
  
The muscle twitches and blood fills the gamblers mouth as the roots of his molars rip his gums at the instinctive move to close his moth around the unforgiving tool.  
  
"Nah, guess not, huh?"  
  
A groan of pain gurgles against the blood and saliva gathering in his mouth.  
  
“Swallow or you’ll choke, dumbass.” Spoken with all the condescension of a parent to a child as the brunette begins to carefully massage the column of Nicks throat to try and help the liquid go down.  
  
In a bout of defiance, or stupidity, the older man allows himself hack back the blood and force it back up with a cough to spit the mixture into the mechanics face.  
  
It must hurt, his jaw contacting around the movements, pressing his teeth harder into metal and in the end, most of it ends up on his face and dripping to his already soiled shirt. But the few flecks dotting Ellis’s face are a small victory.  
  
And Ellis sincerely hopes it was worth it. He may believe in positive reinforcement but that doesn't mean no punishment is given when it's due.  
  
He grasps the arm of the calipers and shoves Nick’s head backwards over the chair's rest and twists the prongs wider. There is a soft crack from the ball of the conman’s jaw and he groans loudly, eyes rolling back in pain.  
  
“Like I said before, y’ get all worked up an’ for nothin’. What did’ja gain from that?”  
  
Stepping around to Nick’s back Ellis uses his grasp on the calipers to further wrench him over the chair. He allows saliva to build up in his mouth as he leans over the gamblers face, working his tongue before opening his lips over Nick’s stretched jaw and allowing the slimy liquid to drip from his mouth in a slow trail. The tortured man jerks against his bonds and tries to cough against the spit pooling in his mouth only succeeding in inhaling some of the hicks saliva.  
  
Finally, Ellis squeezes Nicks throat, cutting off his air before snorting back and hocking loudly. Nicks pupils contract to pinpricks as he attempts to jerk his head away from what follows. A heavy mixture of phlegm and saliva is shot to the back of the conman’s throat before his neck is released.  
  
The bound man trashes as though burned, gagging loudly he throws his head forward, Ellis releases the caliper before forcing three fingers into Nick’s mouth; pushing his head back again and applying pressure to his tongue he watches the older’s oesophagus work violently in protest. Nick pulls at the ropes on his arms and tries in vain to shake the maniac off. His squirming only serving to force Ellis’s fingers further back, resulting in loud retching until eventually his own body betrays him. Blood, spit and phlegm is swallowed back as Ellis massages his throat and pulls his fingers from the gamblers mouth.  
  
There it is.  
  
Ellis grins wildly. The shine on Nick’s lashes, the damp tracks on his blotchy cheeks.  
  
That was easier than he thought it’d be, and he can’t help but to brush his thumb just under those agonized eyes so he can just taste the saltiness of Nick’s tears.  
  
The hick bumps his thumb against his captive’s lower lip.  
  
“Smile.”  
  
Grey eyes close with a choked sob.  
  
Nick flows through grief beautifully but Ellis can’t help but wonder what it would take to truly break the man. He's heard of people becoming so hysterical they laugh in the face of their own death, people simply becoming blank slates as they prepare to die, to cope with the pain. He wonders what it would take for Nick to truly give in.  
  
Wonders if he could keep him.  
  
Blue eyes flit across the room.  
  
“Alright, let’s get ‘chu cleaned up.”  
  
A rag and a bottle of water are _much_ simpler tools.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to point out my mistakes and I'll props edit and fix them xoxo thanks

**Author's Note:**

> Any spelling or grammar errors are my own fault sksks, let me know if you spot anything glaring and I'll edit it, no beta oop-
> 
> My emotion describing as always, is bad. Oopsie sksksk


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